I want to paint the wriggling shards of light coming through this thatch encampment. My favorite ones-- there on the right, with the acute bulemiea, off to the left entrance, sawed off at the torso, and a few of the tiny diamonds-- all positioned like stained glass, interlocked or precariously dismembered, dancing the tango and the night-away.

And the rain sinks in, like it always does if you listen to it long enough. Thank you, Mr. Hire, for the books you sent with me. All of them have changed me in unique ways. I still have Catch 22 and the second half of On The Road to go. I found an ornate book of Edgar Allen Poe's collection of short stories and poems in a box at our house.


This beer tastes like Kung Pao.

Pictured here, is a small collage of the light forms I spoke of before, scattering beams, and our house-cat falling amongst them. We hate that cat.


Hundreds of black centipedes writhe in the rain, unfurling their shiny armor and maybe dying-- I don't know what they're doing. Sometimes, there are thousands of them on the beach.

Man, I love to dance. I'm chair-dancing now to the Killer's new album. Sometimes, we seem absurdly enslaved in our bodies. Dancing is defiance- uncouth expression of disregard for the laws of muscle and tissue and opinion.


Keith and I commenced to walk home in the drizzle. A girl punched me in the arm as she passed us on the road. Keith waved down a van, and we road it to the center of town and, from there, took a couple motos to "Dr. Franks", a place where we like to eat.

(Writtent Yesterday)

Now playing: The Killers - I Can't Stay